


where never lark or even eagle flew

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City, The West Wing
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 15:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12460896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: This is the most important campaign of Bernie Wolfe's life, and she wants Serena Campbell by her side when they win.





	where never lark or even eagle flew

**Author's Note:**

> "who is conan o'brien and why is she so sad?" is one of my favorite lines from 30 Rock. Which can be extrapolated to "who is toby ziegler and why is he so sad?" which can then be extrapolated to "who is bernie wolfe and why is she so sad?" and that is the thought process that got us here. (and jess's support and cheerleading)
> 
> also this is set in america and uses U.S. politics because why! not!

Bernie Wolfe doesn’t work for many winning campaigns. She isn’t known for backing the winning candidate. But, as she will tell you, she backs the candidate she thinks _should_ win, is completely unapologetic about the fact that her positive campaign percentages are low. She works on the campaigns that matter, works with the people who matter.

She gets a call from Leo McGarry, asking her to see the governor of New Hampshire, to see what she thinks about him. She buys a ticket on the next flight out of New York, doesn’t think twice, because Leo doesn’t ask for things without a good reason. She sits next to him in the back of a crowded auditorium to see this governor speak, doesn’t ask Leo why he called her.

When the theater empties, leaving just the two of them in their uncomfortable chairs, Bernie doesn’t ask what he wants from her, doesn’t let the question leave her mouth. She writes, stays behind the scenes, orchestrates. She knows what she’s good for. Instead she asks, “Why me?”

“Because you like to fight for the good guys,” Leo says. “And this is the best guy.” Bernie rolls it around in her head, quiet and thoughtful, her mouth drawn. Everyone tells her she always looks sad. She can’t help her face.

She doesn’t get any cheerier as the campaign begins. She befriends Josh Lyman, Leo’s second-in-command, doesn’t really befriend anyone else. The other speechwriters don’t like her, don’t like her attitude, say she’s too serious. She just likes to do her job well, holds everyone else to her same high standards. She thinks Leo notices, but the group is made up of Bartlet “yes-men” and she thinks she might not have her job very long, if they get their way, making no secret of leaving her out of meetings, of ignoring her when they’re at the bar after a  long day. She’s irascible, an idealist, doesn’t suffer fools. She wonders if it’s because she’s a woman, too, if that plays a part. At the end of the day, when she’s sitting around campaign headquarters, the only other woman she can see is Mrs. Bartlet.

It comes to a head when Leo calls them all in for a meeting, all the chief staffers, all the integral people. She sees the Bartlet cronies grinning, looking smug, thinks this might be her last meeting. And then Leo fires them all, every one of them except Bernie, doesn’t even let Governor Bartlet say a thing. “I’m sick of terrible campaigns between terrible candidates,” he says. “I want to show the people of the United States of America that a good man can be president. We won’t get that with those jokers. We get that by having the best.” Bernie looks at Josh, looks at Sam Seaborne, fresh from New York City. _This is it_ , she thinks. _This is the one that matters_.

She asks Leo if she can hire Serena McKinnie the very next day, says they’ve known each other for years, that she wasting away in California, her political acumen idling as she works for the Hollywood machine. “Give her the pitch,” Leo says, and Bernie gets on another plane.

Serena McKinnie is angry when Bernie appears at her front door, wrinkled from the flight. She’s angry, and has just lost her job. She’s sitting by her pool in the bright Los Angeles sun and all Bernie can do is offer her six hundred dollars a week and the chance to make a difference. Serena looks at Bernie like she’s crazy, like she’s insane, and then echoes the question Bernie asked of Leo McGarry those months earlier.

“Why me?” It’s a fair question, and one Bernie isn’t sure she knows the answer to, beyond the fact that she knows Serena’s credentials, knows how smart she is, wants another woman on the campaign with her, wants someone to have her back.

Instead she lies. “Governor Bartlet was very impressed with your work on EMILY’s List,” she says and Serena just gives Bernie another look, because Bernie has never been very good at lying.  “All right, he’s never heard of you. But Leo and I want you.” She rubs a hand across her forehead, sweating slightly in the heat. She’s pale, from the East Coast, wants nothing to do with the shining rays and unstoppable heat of California. “You’re our choice.”

Serena looks like she wants to say she needs to think it over, her eyes narrowed, her hand fiddling with her necklace. “Let’s get some wine,” is what she says, and Bernie follows her inside, blessing the cold breeze from the air conditioner as she steps into the darkened house.

They drink a whole bottle, the two of them, and Bernie thinks how much she’s missed this sort of companionship. When they worked together on campaigns all those years ago, they’d do this too, share a bottle of wine, passing it back and forth, no need for a glass. They’ve slipped right back into that, even though they’ve been separated by a continent for the better part of a decade.

“I like him,” Bernie says after a bit, when the silence has billowed between them long enough.

“You don’t like anybody,” Serena counters, and Bernie shrugs, because, in essence, it’s true.

“He’s a good man,” she offers.

“So are a lot of people.” Serena isn’t making this easy, isn’t letting Bernie off the hook.

“He’s going to win.” Bernie feels this more surely than she’s felt anything. Her melancholic demeanor is tempered with optimism, hope, a strange combination. She believes in Josiah Bartlet, believes he will be the next president of the United States.

“What about John Hoynes?” Serena asks. He’s the frontrunner, the golden boy Democrat who won over Texas.

“He’s going to lose.”

They drink in silence some more, passing the wine back and forth, and then Serena sighs. “Six hundred a week?”  
“And access to some of the seediest hotels on the Eastern seaboard,” Bernie promises, finally getting a laugh out of Serena, wine-soaked and throaty, and it’s enough to make Bernie’s lips tip up in a smile.

“When do I start?” she asks, and Bernie just pulls out a plane ticket from her blazer pocket, booked for tomorrow, all the way to New Hampshire. She puts it on the table between them and Serena rests her hand atop it, her nails shiny and short, professionally manicured, catching the low light from the lamp. She taps her forefinger once, twice, then looks up at Bernie and nods, decision made.

\- - -

Serena has forgotten what a campaign trail is like, her body used to tamer hours, a decent night’s sleep, decadent sheets, five-star restaurants. But there is a joy in a greasy hamburger served hot in an all-night diner at three in the morning when they’ve just arrived in a new town after a day on the bus. She dips her french fries in her milkshake, Bernie shuddering at the combination. “You put pineapple on your pizza, Bernie. I think you of all people should know when to bow out of a debate about food.” She tosses a balled-up napkin at Bernie’s head.

“It’s not a debate,” Bernie says, her voice always soft, low. There’s a bit of humor lurking in her gaze, something Serena remembers better than anything, that glint in Bernie’s eyes.

She’s working harder than she ever has, is calling in favors to all of her correspondents at newspapers and magazines, parrots the words she was told by Bernie, the words she hears from Josh and Leo every day, the words she’s come to believe in her heart. Josiah Bartlet will be the next president of the United States.

“He’s four points behind in every poll,” Edward Campbell says, when Serena says this over the phone. He works for the Washington Post, has written about politics since someone first put a pen in his hand, and Serena wants him writing about this campaign, this candidate, knows Edward’s attention will give the campaign a bit of the gravitas they sorely need.

“You haven’t seen him debate,” Serena says, because she has seen Bartlet debate, has helped him prep, and he’s unlike anyone she’s worked with before. Sincere, humorous, knowledgeable, all in one package. “When he debates Hoynes - when he beats Hoynes - you’ll wish you had the background story I’m offering you now.” She won’t beg, she learned long ago that will get her nowhere in the end.

“Where’s your next stop?” Serena smiles into the phone because she knows she’s won, knows that this means Edward will meet them there, that Jed Bartlet will get valuable inches of space in the Washington Post, that perhaps there won’t be an article with a headline proclaiming that the Bartlet campaign is out of its league for the fourth time this month.

“We’ll be in Boston on Thursday,” Serena says, is looking forward to a bigger city, maybe even a bathtub in her hotel room. Edward hangs up the phone and Serena is left with just a dial tone, but a grin on her face.

She’s sitting on a folding chair in the corner of a mostly empty hotel conference room because this is the best they could do as a meeting space on short notice. “Bernie!” She calls across the room to the blonde, bent over and talking to a local volunteer. Bernie snaps up, looks towards Serena, and says something to the woman with the “Bartlet for America” pin on her chest, pats her on the shoulder, then makes her way to Serena.

“I got Edward. He’s meeting us in Boston, he’ll expect ten minutes with the candidate, and we’re going to give it to him.” Serena is stalwart in her convictions, confident in the knowledge that she knows how to do her job and do it well.

Bernie is ostensibly Serena’s boss, but she never acts like it, never orders Serena to do anything. She lets Serena talk and talk, and either Serena convinces Bernie to her way of thinking or Serena convinces herself that Bernie is right. They work well, communications director and press secretary, and they have a rapport that makes the long days easier.

They sit in the campaign office, passing a basketball back and forth, Serena throwing it back a little harder than necessary, likes when she can catch Bernie off guard. They trade ideas and strategy and the ball _thwacking_ between them. Sam watches the ball go back and forth, tosses in phrases. They’re all still uncomfortable around the candidate, he still doesn’t know all their names, and they let loose where they can, when they can. The moments are few and far between. Josh and Leo and Governor Bartlet are in a room somewhere else, locked away, and Serena doesn’t envy them. She likes to know things, likes to have access to that privileged information, but sometimes the weight of things she knows, even at this early stage, feels like so much, like too much.

She tells that to Bernie, when they’re in her hotel room later. She’s sitting cross-legged, back against the headboard, and Bernie is in the chair by the desk, legs out, posture slouched. They’re drinking cheap whisky with ice from the machine down the hall. “This is only the beginning,” Bernie says with a sigh, and for once it doesn’t hold as much hope.

They head to Boston the next day, and Edward is waiting for them in the lobby of the hotel. “Ten minutes, Serena,” he says, holding up his notepad and Serena holds up her hand, nods.

“Leo?” she says and pulls him aside. “I promised Edward ten minutes with the candidate, he’ll run it in the Post.” Leo searches her face for a moment - he’s still learning to trust her instincts - and then he nods.

The piece runs in the Post, and Governor Bartlet sounds presidential, sounds smart and strong and sure. Their numbers tick up - because it does feel as if they’re a “they” now -  slowly but surely. And then the debates happen, and when the first one is over, Serena can see the defeat written across John Hoynes’ face. She’s gotten her feet under her now, runs the post-debate press conference with a surety that she wasn’t sure she was capable of six months ago. She knows every reporter’s name, every paper they write for. She sees Edward, standing off to the side and he winks at her. She spares him a grin, asks him to follow her back towards the bus when she’s done answering questions.

“You did good tonight,” he says, leaning towards her and she can smell his cologne.

“The candidate did good tonight,” she answers, and doesn’t lean away. “This isn’t a good idea, Edward.”

“Why not?” His breath is ghosting against her cheeks, puffs of steam in the cold air and Serena can see snowflakes starting to fall.

“I’m the press secretary and you’re, well, you’re the press.” she says, sees the door to the auditorium open, the buzz of the crowd, the light from within spilling out into the dark night, and she moves away from Edward, leaves him standing with his arm pressed against the side of the bus, his head bowed.

Bernie is waiting outside her hotel room when she goes upstairs, holding a bottle of wine, her shoulders sagging, like she’s just heard something depressing. “I thought we’d celebrate,” she says, holding the bottle up ever so slightly, and Serena unlocks the door, holds it open for Bernie to go in first.

“How long have you known Edward?” Bernie asks before Serena’s even unwrapped the cups from their plastic wraps. She sets them down on the mini fridge, turns to look at Bernie.

“Long enough. Why does it matter?” Her voice is sharp, challenging, and she’s looking at Bernie with a bit of fire in her eyes, because she feels like she knows where this is heading.

“You can’t get too close to the press,” Bernie says and won’t meet Serena’s gaze. She sounds small and petulant, and Serena thinks there might be something else behind the bottle of wine, something else behind all the time they spend together.

“Is it the press or is it Edward you’re worried about?” Serena isn’t going to back down, she won’t let Bernie off the hook that easily. She doesn’t like her integrity called into question, doesn’t like that Bernie would bring this up. It rankles her, makes her hackles raise in a way few people can manage.

“Never mind,” Bernie mutters. “You can keep the wine.” She leaves, Serena still standing by the mini fridge when the door closes.

She and Bernie don’t speak for three days.

\- - -

Bernie is used to being solitary, is something of a lone wolf (and she won’t acknowledge the pun). With Serena around, she’d forgotten what it was like to be lonely, at least for a little bit. And now, with Serena’s ire directed at her, she’s remembering what isolation feels like. Serena writes memos, sends her assistant to talk to Bernie, but won’t make any direct contact. There aren’t late night chats in their hotel rooms, there aren’t shared meals at two o’clock in the morning. It’s only three days, in the end, but it feels like it spans years.

Bernie isn’t quite sure what she does to get back in Serena’s good graces, but she thinks it might’ve been when she backed up Serena’s poll projections in front of senior staff. She didn’t miss the look of gratification sent her way, but she didn’t react to it either. She’s used to being the skulking crow in the back of the room, doesn’t think she can respond to the bright, sunny presence of Serena McKinnie without ruining her reputation.

But after that, it’s as if nothing had happened, no time had passed. She doesn’t bring up Edward Campbell again, and neither does Serena. Whenever he’s around, writing stories on the campaign, Bernie makes herself scarce. She still finds herself watching, glances thrown over her shoulder, at Edward flirting with Serena, at her gentle touches to his arm. She hates herself every time she looks, but can’t stop herself from doing it. She wants to issue a memo that says reporters aren’t allowed to interact with members of senior staff outside of interviews, but knows it’ll just incense Serena.

“We can’t look like we’re hiding things,” is what Serena will say, because Bernie has had this argument between them in her head for the last week, and she can do both sides with ease.

So she lets it be and pretends it isn’t eating her up inside.

The campaign ratchets up and they’re moving from place to place so quickly that it’s sometimes hard to keep track of. They have their first debate against the Republican candidate coming up, and Bernie has rarely felt more stressed.

“You’re always stressed,” Serena says, when Bernie admits it after an endless session of debate prep, of lobbying answers back and forth, of refining word choices and the speed at which Governor Bartlet can respond.

“Maybe,” Bernie concedes, and takes a sip of her wine.

“You’ve seen the other guy,” Serena says, refilling their glasses, twisting the bottle so it doesn’t drip.

“I have,” Bernie agrees, holding her cup close, crossing her ankles and tilting her head back. “But I’ve also seen our guy, when he’s off his game.” She’s an idealist and a pessimist in equal measure.

“He won’t be off his game,” Serena says, and the confidence in her voice makes Bernie tip up her head and look at Serena. She’s in her pajamas, the hotel robe around her shoulders loosely, and there’s a little bit of redness on her lips from the wine.

“We should stop drinking red late at night. Some day it won’t wash off,” Bernie says.

  
“What would we drink instead? White?” Serena shudders in faux disgust and Bernie chuckles, the raspy, hoarse sound that she’s developed instead of her full-throated bray that doesn’t befit someone of her position.

\- - -

The moments before the debate are a rush of activity. Governor Bartlet goes out to sneak a cigarette, Bernie joins him, sees him drop burning ash onto his tie, sees the small hole form before she can brush it away. She looks at him with wide eyes, his gaze matching hers, and they rush inside and Bernie demands Josh hand over his tie. Mrs. Bartlet ties it with efficiency, a gleam in her eyes as she stands close to her husband and Bernie has to look away at the intimacy. She hears Abbey whisper, “Game on, boyfriend,” and hides her smile by ducking her chin.

She watches the debate from the side of the stage, Serena standing next to her, their shoulders brushing. And when Governor Bartlet is asked the first question, his stance on education funding, Serena’s hand reaches out to grab Bernie’s, squeezes her fingers tightly, her eyes dancing with excitement, with energy, with hope.

When it comes to oratory, very few people match Josiah Bartlet, and that is made clear time and time again during the debate. He stops just short of evisceration, but no one watching Governor Bartlet on that stage could, for a moment, think that he is not the most qualified candidate in the race for president. Serena is gleeful, her mind whirling a mile a minute at what to say to the press, at what the questions might be. Bernie watches her, can only smile at her enthusiasm, the expression slightly foreign on her face. She thinks that Serena makes her happier.

The winner of the debate will be decided by popular opinion the next day, but the celebratory atmosphere is undeniable, there are bottles of champagne and loud crackers full of confetti, silly hats for everyone. They know they’ve earned a respite, however brief. They know they’ve done their jobs, they’ve shown the country why Governor Bartlet should be the next president of the United States of America. Bernie hangs in the back, watches her friends toast to their success, watches them smile and laugh, feels a sense of joy burble in her chest. Music is blaring loudly in the speakers and she wonders when the hotel manager will tell them to turn it down. Serena dances over to Bernie, her hips swaying, two glasses of champagne in her hands.

“This is your night too,” she says, handing one to Bernie.

“Mmm,” is all Bernie says as she takes a sip, letting the carbonated liquid sit on her tongue.

“I’m warm,” Serena says. “Let’s go outside.”

It’s cold outside, freezing, and they’re neither dressed to be outdoors. But Serena huddles close to Bernie, her breath making clouds, her cheeks pinked not just from alcohol and excitement. She takes another sip of her champagne and turns to Bernie. “We did this,” she says.

“Not just us,” Bernie says, not able to let the moment lie.

“No, not just us,” Serena agrees, leans into Bernie. “You’re the best speechwriter I’ve ever met.”

“How many speechwriters have you met?” she asks, lets her head rest, briefly, against the top of Serena’s, feels her hair against her cheek.

“Enough to know you’re the best.” Her head moves under Bernie’s touch, and she’s looking up at Bernie, her eyes bright and shiny, and Bernie can’t stop herself when she leans in to press her lips to Serena’s, wants to taste that optimism, that happiness, that warmth.

Serena’s mouth parts under Bernie’s, her tongue darts out against Bernie’s, and it’s everything Bernie thought it would be and nothing like it all at once. Her world shifts and breaks open and then telescopes to this one small moment, this brief exchange, and all she can feel is Serena pressed against her.

\- - -

The rest of the campaign passes in a blur, too quickly and not fast enough all at once. Serena is tired of campaigning and wants to start working on the things that matter. She wants to be in the White House, knows she’ll be there soon enough, feels in her heart that Governor Bartlet will win.

She feels less sure on the night of the election. She feels nervous and on edge and like she’s trapped because there’s nothing more she can do. They’re all headquartered in New Hampshire, Serena sent in her absentee ballot weeks ago so all she can do is sit on her hands. Bernie is tense too, barking at everyone who so much as utters the words “acceptance speech.” Serena knows she’s written two speeches, that she’s clutching them in a folder.

Polls start to close as the sun sets and Serena is glued to the news. She watches the crawlers, watches as results trickle in. Percentages and numbers that might’ve meant nothing to her months ago mean everything now. Through it all, Bernie is at her side, they’re inseparable.

They haven’t talked about their kiss, haven’t even brought it up since it happened. Serena doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t let it get her flustered, because while Bernie is important to her,  this campaign is _more_ important than anything else. She thinks Bernie feels the same way.

Josh, Sam, the Bartlets, everyone from the campaign, is gathered around the television in a large conference room in a hotel. It’s sparsely decorated, just “Bartlet for America” signs hanging up because Bernie isn’t letting anyone blow up so much as one balloon. Serena has heard some campaign volunteers saying they’ve got a hotel room full to the brim of streamers and balloons, hidden from Bernie’s eyes. Serena’s tempted to tell them to go outside and spit, the only way to ward off the bad luck from being overconfident.

New Hampshire is called for Governor Bartlet, and though no one is surprised, everyone is relieved, and there’s a bit of loosening in the air. Serena smiles at Bernie, and could almost fool herself into thinking Bernie’s smiling back.

Things loosen up more when Texas goes for Bartlet, the real reason John Hoynes was asked to join the ticket. It only takes two more states, and there’s no possible way for Bartlet to lose, because everyone knows California will go blue. Bernie is on edge, doesn’t want to call it too soon, but CNN, MSNBC, every network, is calling it for Bartlet, and balloons and streamers and confetti suddenly appear. The phone that’s been clenched in Serena’s hand rings, and it’s someone from the opponent’s camp, calling to concede. She thrusts the phone towards Governor - towards President-Elect Bartlet, and hears his soothing voice, his calming words, his reassurance that it was a fair fight, that he couldn’t imagine having run against a better man. Serena feels pride blossom in her heart at it.

He gives a stirring acceptance speech - Serena is never more in awe of Bernie’s talents than on nights like this - wherein Barlet promises to unite the nation under a banner of hope and truth and justice, to govern as he campaigned, with civility and intelligence. He speaks of the brighter tomorrow that’s just within reach, that he’s looking forward to having a brighter today.

Afterwards, when it’s starting to settle in that it’s real, that they’ve done it, that they’ve won, champagne flows freely. Someone unearths a cheap bottle of bourbon and Serena sips at the bracing liquid. And then she hears the music, starting softly, gathering volume, and she knows Bernie is responsible.

It’s something she used to do, to celebrate being done with exams, or after making a solid deal. _Did I ever tell you about the man who changed my life?_ There’s only one thing to be done, and Serena makes her way through the crowd, to an open space. She sees Bernie, leaning against a pillar, an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips, and the closest thing to glee that Serena’s ever seen on her face.

Sam comes up, says something in Bernie’s ear and Bernie waves him away, gestures to Serena, and Sam grins widely, settles in next to Bernie. Serena likes this, likes that she’s known for this. The attention gives her a little pause, a little nervousness, but she’s had three glasses of champagne and is riding the high of the biggest win of her life, so she’s willing to mouth along to the words of “The Jackal,” willing to dance, to slide around the room, all the while seeing Bernie smile, that cigarette on her lips, a glass of bourbon in her hand.

The song fades out, one final _The Jackal_ and Serena takes a bow to the applause in the room. “Serena Wendy McKinnie,” the voice of Josiah Bartlet comes from behind her, “I do believe that even if I’d lost the election, that would be enough to make me feel better.” He claps her on the shoulder, his smile benevolent and sparkling, his eyes happy.

“Thank you, sir,” she says, her cheeks red, her neck hot. He moves on, and Serena wonders if she’ll ever get used to it, the combination of pride in her heart and tightness in her chest, if she’ll ever feel anything but honored to be a part of this.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the kind of thing that could be continued with but also might never be continued with! who knows forever! it's easy to have a million headcanons about this and much harder to write them! this isn't a plea for comments asking for this to continue! just some fact-dropping! have i used enough exclamation points to get across the fact that i'm cool and casual????


End file.
